So after about a month of working for Dunns Entertainment, mainly assisting Ryan (who, after doing a few shows with, turned out to be kind of a weird guy, a bit of a control freak and pretty dumb) I finally got to do my own show.
“It's right up your alley,” said Scott when we were having a pre-show meeting in the Dunns office. “It's a kid's birthday party.”
I had told Scott that I was an aspiring children's author and had worked in children's publishing aside from being a music journalist and heavy metal DJ, a didactic that most people didn't get. And still don't. So when the job of handling a kid's birthday party came up, Scott immediately thought of me. Which was cool.
“It's a big step,” Scott said from behind his desk. Ian, the tech guy and Scott's right hand man, was sitting at his desk across the office typing up playlists and making my job folder for me. “This is your first solo gig. Think you can handle it?”
“I hope so,” I said. “Did they order a fog machine?”
“They did.”
“Then I can handle it.”
The birthday was to be set at a country club somewhere deep in the wealthier refines of the Foothills. The Tucson Foothills is the land far far away from any of the real adventures that go on in the dirty southern Old Pueblo. It's scattered with million dollar estates, overtly upscale boutiques and bistros and filled with white Republican rage. To me one of the lone redeeming aspects of the Foothills is a gourmet market called AJ's which is a mercantile of the freshest fruits and vegetables, an incredible meat and fish counter, hard to find international fare and they have their own sommelier. Otherwise, I could care less about that far off land cluttered with folk that are too lazy to move up to Phoenix or Scottsdale.
The day of the birthday, after loading all that heavy equipment by myself seeing as I didn't even have an assistant DJ that day, I drove out to the country club and found the location where I would set up. It was going to be a luau themed party to be had right by one of the main swimming pools. There were Hawaiian looking decorations everywhere, leis strung on lights and posts and inflatable tiki heads bopping in the late afternoon breeze. After I met my contact, the mom, who was a harried looking middle aged lady, I was instructed to set up under a straw canopy and start playing background music.
“The kids will be here soon,” said the mom. “They're having a chef catered lunch in the grand ballroom.”
Jeeze, I thought. I think my most extravagant birthday was lunch at Disneyland and one of the three little pigs came up and shook his belly at me. These Foothill kids have it rough man...
Here's the gist of the gist: The birthday was for a girl who was turning 13. Which I was okay with. When Scott told me I'd be doing a “kids birthday” I thought like 7 or 10 years old. At least these kids might dance or get into trouble. Which I kind of hoped they would.
The background music was a melange of loungy tropical fare, one of which was a cover of “Over the Rainbow” by some dude named Israel Kamakawiwo`ole.
“Say, who is this?” some guy wearing an expensive looking faux Acapulco shirt said when he walked up to me. I told him the name and he said, “Oh yeah. That big fat Samoan guy.”
“Um,” I started. “Okay.”
“Yeah. He's like 500 pounds or something,” informed the guy.
“Wow.”
“I think he died,” he said.
“Huh.”
After that, the doors opened from the lobby area and in strewed 20 or 30 barely teen kids, all in bathing suits and trunks.
“Can you play any hardcore rap?” one scrawny boy asked me.
“I seriously doubt it,” I said. “Your parents would kill me.”
“Do you have that song 'Bin Laden Weed' by Three Six Mafia?” asked another.
“What?”
“You need to play 'Bump That Pussy',” said yet another.
“Bump the what?”
These 12 to 14 year old kids were asking me to play the most outlandish stuff, songs and bands I have never even heard of. Now I have no right to judge, seeing as I own records with song titles like “Force Fed Broken Glass”, “Angel of Death” and “Frozen Corpse Stuffed with Dope”, but these little ones were requesting some pretty X rated songs. Luckily the mom and Ian provided a CD mix with all sorts of “acceptable” new dance hits, so I stuck with that and got back to work.
The kids all started to jump in the pool and I found it quite odd that they would hire a DJ when all the kids wanted to do was swim and the adults stand around and get drunk. But, whatever. I was getting paid to play music so I mixed the stuff as best I could and kept my head down.
As it began to get dark, the kids all got out of the pool and started to rally around me and the makeshift dance area that I created in front of the DJ tower. I had some lights hooked up, which I switched on once it was dark enough, and clicked on the infamous fog machine.
“I think they're ready to dance now,” the mom whispered in my ear. She sounded and smelled pretty drunk. “So turn it up and let's get going.”
With that cue I hit the volume on high and put on some hot new tune...which totally eludes me at this point. Before I knew it, dozens of pre-teen and tween boys and girls, still in their bathing suits, were now grinding and bumping on the dance floor. This was a pedophile's wet dream. I started to feel kind of uncomfortable, like a dirty strange uncle giving the kids a sip from his bottle. To help aid the awkwardness, I pressed the button for the fog machine and before long, the writhing boys and girls were immersed in a sea of fog.
I don't get it, I thought. How am I not to feel like a pervert?
A check of the clock said I still had almost two hours left to DJ. So I sucked up all of my creepy crawlies and kept my head down.
About four or five songs in, the kids began to trickle away. Before long, the dance floor was empty and I was blasting dance pop tunes to absolutely no one. Fog stuck to the warm night air and the disco lights reflected an abandoned pool and party. It was kind of surreal.
Then there was a flutter of adults. They scrambled across the patio area and seemed hellbent on getting somewhere. I could hear them cry out, but for who or what I could not discern. The music was just so damn loud.
After a pause in the action, the parents all returned with the young lot of birthday pool party-ers, who all looked none too happy to be returning to the main area and dance floor.
“You better call it a night,” said an irate dad with heavy Scotch breath. “These kids found a place out back and were playing Truth or Dare. To say the least, they're all in a lot of trouble.”
With that the kids and their disappointed and disciplining parents in tow, all left the arena and were soon gone from sight. A few stragglers, probably friends of the parents, stuck around and asked me to play a few songs that they wanted to hear. Jimmy Buffet, The Beatles and such.
“Only if I can grab some food and a drink,” I said.
They heartily obliged and I threw on some “adult album rock” CD and left. They were thrilled, hooting and trying to dance through the vault door wail of free alcohol all day, while I pillaged the almost untouched buffet of sea bass, rice pilaf, fresh garden salad and a strong vodka soda. After eating and drinking, and the few baby boomers trying to keep it up, I eventually packed it up and packed it in.
As I drove away in that clunky white van, with the load of heavy equipment packed tightly in the back, all I could muster was “What the heck was that?”
The next day I get a call from my boss Scott and he informed me that the parents loved my job and performance and threw in a hefty tip. I was delighted yet at the same time wondering if they felt embarrassed for what their kids did; the whole 'not really dancing and climbing through the fence to get to the darkened out region of the golf course to confess and kiss' thing. I didn't really care.
OK, if you read any of my previous “Tucson Tales” entries, then you know that I had a very short stint as a DJ at a “gentleman's club”. Yeah, that didn't work out too well. And if you read any of my other stuff, including my first book “Rabbit Every Tuesday”, then you know that I used to be a heavy metal DJ at a prominent club and radio station back in San Francisco. Essentially I moved to Tucson with years of DJ and music journalist experience behind me and I tried to put some of those skills to work when I began to seriously job hunt.
Here's the deal though: Tucson is a much stranger and different beast than the hip strangled city by the bay.
After detoxing and getting acquainted with my new city, I immediately started to type up DJ and journalist resumes, thinking I would be snatched up immediately because of who I was and where I came from. I mean, hey, I'm Metal Mark from San Francisco. I'm gonna own Tucson pretty soon! So I went around to every club, radio station and newspaper trying to get some form of job.
Like I've said before the only radio stations that were hiring, outside of the endless array of tejano, country, hip hop and uber christian, were classic and new rock stations that paid next to nothing. One station offered me a position that started at 2am and ended at 9 and would pay me like $7 an hour to switch from song to song. Honestly I almost took it but when I drove out there for the interview, I discovered it was about five miles out in the middle of BF nowheres desert. So, that place was out.
Luckily I landed a job at the T-Rex museum as a supervisor, but I still really wanted to keep DJing. Not to mention make some more money.
One day I was trolling around the Tucson Criagslist (and I was super happy to find that Tucson did indeed actually had their own Craigslist page) and I came across an ad in the help wanted “entertainment” section:
'Dunn's DJ Entertainment, the leading professional DJ service in southern Arizona is hiring for the busy wedding and prom season here in Tucson. Experience preferred but will train the right people. Please contact Scott at blah blah blah...'
So my first reaction was “Oh great! I can be a DJ again.” Then my second one was “Wait...all I've ever done was rock and metal. How the heck is a guy like me, freakin' Metal Mark!, gonna DJ weddings and proms?” Hmmm.
Well, I really needed more money coming in and I really wanted to DJ again. So I sent that Scott guy an email with my resume attached and went back to work at the museum.
The next day I get a phone call. I actually picked up the receiver (for those that know me know that I never answer the phone, for those that don't know me, know this...I never answer the phone) and said the prerequisite “Hello?”
“Yes,” said a chipper voice on the other end. “May I speak to Mark please?”
“I'm Mark.”
It was that Scott guy from the DJ company. We chatted a bit, he asked me some questions then we set a time for an interview.
“What are you doing today?” Scott asked.
“Uh, well...” I had the day off and really didn't feel like being interviewed, but... “Um, nothing. Really.”
“How about we meet up here at the office in an hour?”
Oh man. I'd have to shower and get dressed and put on my “Yes, I am an outstanding member of the workforce” face and stance. But, I agreed and got cleaned up and drove out to meet this guy.
The office was in this sort of industrial complex, a strip mall of offices, down by the freeway. I parked the car, found the Dunns office and walked in.
Scott was a robust middle aged guy with white hair, a wide smile and wearing some sort of Tommy Bahama shirt. The office was sparse with two desks, some file cabinets, computers and the like. I sat down at Scott's desk, we chatted, he was nice enough and impressed that I had a lot of actual DJ experience.
“Now, now, what I'm worried about,” he said, “is that this is a far cry from being a heavy metal DJ. You might be bored.”
“I doubt that,” I said. “I've never done proms of weddings before. Should be interesting.”
With that he hired me and set me up to be trained on my first assignment, a wedding in two days.
* * *
The day of the weeding arrived and I drove out to some Elks lodge, hidden way in the the back behind some strip mall just off of a main road near the foothills area of Tucson. It was dusty, it was hot and I was in khakis and the starched white Dunn's DJ (yes, with their name and logo on the left side) dress shirt, dress shoes and a tie. I felt a little like a stooge but, hey, it was work and I was a DJ once again.
I make my way inside the Elks lodge, which was really just an extended club house with offices, a bar, meeting rooms and a ballroom, which I assumed where the wedding was to take place. There, standing in the almost exact same outfit as me is a slender dark haired guy in the center of the ballroom.
“Are you Mark?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Hi. I'm Ryan,” he said approaching me with his hand extended for a shake. “Looks like I'm going to be training you today.”
“Looks like it.”
Ryan then lead me back outside where a large white utility van was parked. In it was a huge and cumbersome DJ station, large speakers, pickups, bags of equipment and loads and loads of extension plugs and wires.
“Oh man,” I said. “Last time I DJ'd I had a cooler full of metal CDs, a fog machine and my Castle Grayskull”.
“Oh we have a fog machine,” Ryan said, which got me rather excited. “But what's a Castle Grayskull?”
“Uh...”
So we unloaded the mass of equipment and set up shop in the ballroom area. All sorts of, well, Elk lodge folk were meandering about: white people that look as if the only clothes shopping option is K Mart and Boot Emporium, even if they were done up for a wedding.
“So...” I asked a bit nervously, “what kind of music are we going to be playing?”
“Some dance music,” Ryan said, which relaxed me a bit. “But mostly country music.”
My heart sank.
I have never DJ'd country music before. The closest I ever got to country music in my time as a journalist and DJ was seeing Hank Williams III play at the Warped Tour. That was kind of it. I had no clue what new band or popular country music artist was going on. Waylon Jennings...is he still around?
“Don't worry,” Ryan assured. “We have playlists all set up and the bride and groom even provided some music for us. Just watch and learn.”
The time was getting closer to the arrival of the bride and groom and more people were filling up the lodge and ballroom. For some reason, I was kind of getting nervous.
“You the DJ?” some guy in a denim “dress” jacket asked me.
“Uh, yes,” I said.
“You got any Brooks and Dunn?”
Who and what?
“Um, well...”
“Yes sir,” Ryan mercifully broke in. “We got a little bit of everything. Just tell us what you want to hear and we'll play it.”
The denim blazer man just looked at Ryan. “I wanna hear Brooks and Dunn,” he said before sipping on his bottle of Bud.
Pretty soon it was time to announce the arrival of the bride and groom.
“Do you want to do it?” Ryan asked me.
I just kind of pointed to myself and looked confused. “Who? Me? Uh. I've never announced the arrival of someone before. So...maybe you should do it.”
“Good idea,” Ryan said as if I actually knew what was going on. “Just watch and learn.”
Slowly I was becoming weary of Ryan and his whole approach and demeanor. I mean, he seemed like a nice guy but perhaps a bit too focused, maybe too into the fact that we're getting $12 an hour to play country music in an Elks lodge for some white trash wedding. Then I started to see the absolute humor in it all and began to relax. Just have fun with it all, I told myself. Sure it's not metal but, man, at least we get to hit the buffet they were setting up and those ribs looked mighty tasty.
Ryan and I walked over to the door the bride and groom would be entering through. When we opened it, I was both pleased and shocked to find that it lead into the lodge's bar.
“Are you serious,” I said with a snicker. “They're going to walk through here before getting married...a bar?”
It was a pretty haphazard bar at that. Lots of wood paneling, old Schlitz beer mirrors and guys that look like “Urban Cowboy” rejects sitting around as if they knew nothing of a wedding about to happen. The smile just wouldn't leave my face.
“This is the funniest thing ever,” I said.
Before long, a thin woman wearing a white bridal gown and a tall lanky guy in a black suit arrived. In that bar. My assumption was that they were the bride and groom. Another guy, who apparently was the best man, approached Ryan and said that they were ready. Ryan then got on the wireless microphone and said: “May I have your attention please? A big round of applause for the bride and groom!”
With that the hundred or so people all crammed into that ballroom erupted in applause along with hoots, hollers and I even though I got a whiff of a “Ye-haw” somewhere in there. So the couple sauntered up to the stage area where an old man, the preacher I supposed, was standing holding a bible.
The ceremony itself went off without a hitch. That is until the end. As the preacher started talking about lifelong dedication and the hard work that is love, long after he pronounced them man and wife, he then went on about how his wife is rotting away with some life wasting cancer and how he has to bathe her and clean her butt after she poops and all this horrific morbid crap. Because that's what "real love" is or something. My jaw dropped so hard it felt like an old Loony Tunes cartoon take, like completely fell to the floor. He then wished them good luck and it was time for us to spring into action.
We started off with some light “background” country as guests partook of that buffet I was eyeing the whole time. Literally, the ballroom stunk of amazing ribs and down home cooking, outside of cheap beer and stale starched denim. That's when two dorky pre-teen boys came up to us.
“You got any Jay Z,” the one with red hair asked.
“Yeah,” said the other with brambly dark hair and buck teeth. “What about 50 Cent?”
“Um, well...I'm not too sure we can play that here,” I said. “I think they want us to just play country.”
“Ok. That's cool,” said the buck tooth. “Then play some Brooks and Dunn.”
The afternoon was going pretty well and smooth. Once the eating was done, they did their toasts and announcements and such and right after that it was time to get down. Ryan put on some kind of two steppin' new country song and the place erupted with hoots, hollers, yes, a few “ye-haws” and folks grabbing partners and scooting around the dance floor.
“Is this Brooks and Dunn?” I yelled into Ryan's ear.
“No,” he said. “George Straight.”
Then I felt a tapping on my shoulder. I turned around to find that big fellow from earlier standing behind me, not looking very pleased.
“I thought you said you'd play some Brooks and Dunn.”
“Uh, yeah,” I muttered suddenly feeling intimidated. “We, um, we'll get to them.”
The big guy then nodded heavily and walked away.
“Dude,” I told Ryan, “you better play some Brooks and Dunn. I think our lives depend on it.”
Ryan, busy with switching music and queing up CDs, was quiet for a second. Once he got situated, he turned to me and said, “Brooks and Dunn? I don't think I brought any Brooks and Dunn.”
Boink. I thought he said we had those guys? For real?
That's when I immediately stopped manning the lights and taking requests to fumble through the enormous case of CDs that was resting on a stand. My fingers couldn't work fast enough. I gleamed through an endless supply of mixed CDs of disco, rock, party anthems, modern dance, techno, Latino fare, holiday tunes and the like. Even the dozen or so country mixes, each containing hundreds of MP3s revealed no Brooks and Dunn. How can this be?
“Hey Mark,” Ryan loudly said in my ear as the rumbling country tunes filled the ballroom air with honky tonk delight. “I have to use the bathroom. There's some songs qued up so you're good.”
Ryan then left and now I was at the console, this tower of knobs and CD changers that weighed at least 100lbs and came up to about my belt line. Luckily for me I had plenty of DJ experience so I just did was Ryan said and played the songs he had lined up, while at the same time searching for at least one, just ONE!, Brooks and Dunn song. The big guy was giving me the evil eye. Maybe someone here has a Brooks and Dunn CD in their truck or trailer. Then I'd be saved.
“Excuse me,” came a voice. It was a nice middle aged lady wearing a bright red corsage. “But, could you play this one song for me. It's my husband and I's favorite song and I think the new couple will be just tickled to hear it.”
When she handed me the CD my heart beamed a light that could only come from being saved. It was Brooks and Dunn!
“Song four if you don't mind,” she said.
Immediately I ejected the next CD I was going to play, put in the nice lady's Brooks and Dunn CD, advanced to song four and breathed a sigh of relief. When the song that was playing came to an end, I slowly mixed in the Brooks and Dunn song, which was a slow one, and hoped that the big guy liked it.
“Hey,” said Ryan coming back from his bathroom break. “This isn't the song I had qued up.”
“Yeah, I know,” I said apprehensively. “But, uh...”
“Hey!” rang a deep voice. It was the big guy, standing off to my right, holding yet another Bud and gazing at me with terse eyes.
“Y-yes...sir?” I stumbled.
“Good job,” the big guy said. “I sure do love this song. Always reminds me of my ex wife. My second one. She was the apple of my eye...until she went rotten.”
I smiled and breathed yet another sigh of relief. The rest of the afternoon went on nearly spotless and after the party was over, we packed up, got tipped out by the bride's daddy and were set to go home.
“You guys stayin' for a beer?” asked the big guy who was obviously very drunk.
“We're not allowed to drink on the job sir,” said Ryan a bit overly authoritatively so.
All I did was turn to Ryan, put a hand on his shoulder and said “But we're not working anymore.”
“We still have to unload the truck,” he said.
“I'll meet you back at the warehouse,” I said. “I'm having a beer with my new buddy here.”
Ryan, looking very displeased, walked away, got into the Dunn's DJ truck and drove off. How funny, I thought, that I work for a DJ company called Dunn's seeing as a group called Brooks and Dunn have been giving me headaches all day. Go figure.
“Once again, good job buddy,” said the big guy.
“Thanks man.”
We then walked into the bar area and I was pleased to find that most of the buffet, including those ribs, were set up in the back. I grabbed a plate, filled it with the home cooked goodness, grabbed a beer and sat down.
“What kind of music do you like?” asked the big guy.
With a mouth full of BBQ meat and a face slathered in sauce, I said “Heavy metal.”
The big guy just laughed. “Boy, then what in the heck are you doin' DJin' a country wedding?”
I'm pretty sure I just shrugged.
“Don't know,” I said. “But I have a feeling things are going to get pretty interesting now that I am.”
We then clinked bottles, drank and swapped stories for a while. It was a weird and wily introduction to my new found career as a “professional” DJ in my new home of Tucson Arizona. And just the beginning as well.
Oh, and I never did make it to the warehouse to help Ryan unpack that van.
This is a short story I wrote for Spork magazine. Enjoy...
“The Cornbread Hustle”
By Mark Whittaker
Ed really wasn't faring too well. His head hurt and his eye sockets felt as if sawdust got inside and were blowing around them. His feet were itchy too. Ed really just wanted to get home and get into a tub, drink a lot of beer and watch some TV show with girls mud wrestling.
“Do they even have shows with girls mud wrestling?” Ed asked himself, or to no one in particular. “I thought they did.”
Ed was standing on the corner of Bilgewater Ave. and Floop St., a location no one should really find themselves just standing around. Especially at noon. It was hot, swampy and the gritty folks that meandered by, all brandishing sneers and open sores, looked at Ed rather disapprovingly.
“Yeah, yeah,” muttered Ed. “I know I aint from around here and I know I don't look my best. Just keep walkin' and no one's gonna get nasty.”
“Hey you!” cried a voice. Ed heard it and when they repeated themselves, he turned his head to see where it was coming from. Across the street, in front of a storefront that just had the sign “FOOD” dangling from a rusty chain, stood three gruff looking men in flannel shirts, just buttoned at the top, long black shorts, white socks pulled up to the knee and black flat shoes. The three men all were very short and looked Canadian.
“Yeah?” Ed finally uttered. “You guys hollerin' fer me?”
“That's right homie,” said the guy in front, who was the shortest and whitest of the trio. “This is our turf, eh. We run this street esse. You got no right to stand there and look like you just walked out of a graveyard.”
“Yeah,” said the guy standing behind the main thug, who had shocks of bright red hair and was extremely freckled. “What? Are you like from that Thriller video or something homes?”
This got the three very short wannabe vato gangsters in a laughing fit.
“I don't get it,” said Ed. “What's a thriller video?”
“It's that song by Michael Jackson,” came a voice right behind Ed. “The video had like zombies and stuff in it. And I guess you kind of look like one.”
Ed slowly spun around to find a young boy, maybe 10 or 11, sitting on a stoop eating an ice cream sandwich. The vanilla filling was dripping down his arm and onto his red sneakers.
“Oh,” Ed replied. “Not my fault kid. It's been one heck of a night.”
The boy licked the ice cream and gazed up at Ed. “You got like all drunk or something?” he asked.
Ed creaked his heavy head up to the sky and took a bereft gander up at the prison break sun. “You don't even know kid,” he muttered. “I got dropped off here and I kinda don't know where I am.”
The boy took a bite out of the ice cream sandwich. “You got any money?”
Ed then lifted his near broken arms and dove them into his deep and worn pockets. His fingers fished around, trying to hook anything that resembled a bill or coin.
“Uh...nope,” was all Ed could answer with. “'Fraid not.”
“That's too bad,” said the kid.
Ed just slightly nodded. “Yeah,” he agreed. “It is.”
The two then regarded each other as the boy finished up his ice cream sandwich and Ed stood there watching him with a shattered mind and body. The sandwich looked good but he knew all too well that if he ate, he'd feel even worse. So he just stood there, barely able to, hating that the sun was charring the top of his hairless head.
After the boy wiped his mouth clean of the chocolate and vanilla, he stood up.
“C'mon,” he said with an arm wave.
“C'mon...where?” Ed asked.
“Follow me.”
With that, the boy opened up the door he was snacking in front of and walked in. Ed, having nothing to lose, followed.
“That's right esse,” cried out one of the taunting vertically challenged gangsters. “Run. Run off like a little bitch!”
Ed just didn't care. He walked inside and closed the door behind him.
It was dark and it took Ed's eyes some time to adjust, but when they did he was pleased to find that he was inside some kind of convenience store. Thing was, it was really old and run down and appeared to have not been in business for quite some time.
“Beer,” Ed uttered loud enough for that kid to possibly hear him. “Do you have any beer?”
“No,” said the boy who was walking towards a doorway that was draped in some sort of middle eastern patterned shawl. “But with the money you'll make, you can go buy some.”
“Oh.”
The boy disappeared behind that shawl and Ed was left a lone in the dilapidated bodega. There were ancient boxes of muffin mixes and dusty cans of green beans. Ed considered eating once again but he knew it was best if he just kept his momentum going and eat later when he knew he was home safe.
Eventually the boy returned, this time holding something in his hands. It was a rectangular box wrapped tightly in brown paper.
“If you take this to the guy across the street...”
“What guy?” asked Ed. “Those white midgets pretending to be Mexican gang members?”
“Oh no,” said the boy, sounding rather alarmed. “You don't wanna mess with those guys. In fact, that's why you will make the money. What's in this box is...what they want.”
“What is it?”
“I can't tell you,” the boy said almost whispering. “But it's the thing that made this neighborhood so scary.”
Ed suddenly became rather iffy on the whole making some money by delivering whatever is in that box and the possibility of getting jumped by three tough short guys dressed like they just walked out of an east LA gang catalog thing.
Still he really needed some cash. “How much?” Ed asked.
“Fifty dollars,” informed the boy. “Here. You need to go now because the guy...”
“What guy?”
“The man in the green jacket sitting at the table in the back of the seafood restaurant.”
“There's a seafood restaurant?”
“Yes. Across the street.”
“They serve beer?”
“I don't think so.”
“Damn.”
The boy walked up to Ed and handed him the package. It had some weight to it and Ed really didn't want to know what was inside. He was too nervous to ask.
“The guy just called and said he's ready for it,” said the boy. “Good luck.”
Ed took a deep breath, turned around and exited the bodega. Once back on the street, he was pleased to find that the three dwarfed honky vatos were gone. So Ed walked across the street and was pleased to find a seafood restaurant. It was that “FOOD” place he saw earlier and noticed that they had also drawn a crude picture of a fish under it to indicate what type of food you would be consuming.
When Ed entered the restaurant he was happy to find that it was air conditioned. The fake coolness felt good on his sun baked skin and scalp. The place was empty of people but it was packed with ornate tables and antique looking captain's chairs. There was light pan flute music playing over the crackling house system and it smelled like low tide. In the back, sitting at a table, was a man dressed in a green jacket.
“Are you the guy?” called out the man in the green jacket.
“Um. I guess,” answered Ed.
“Good, good. You're just in time.” The man in the green jacket then began to wave Ed over. “Come in...come in!”
Ed walked over, through the maze of high class tables set up for patrons that would never come and stood in front of the man. His jacket was a bit too bright of a green and it off set his chubby red face. His thin hair was combed back a little overly so and he appeared to be sweating a bit.
“Well sit down, sit down,” insisted the green jacket man.
“Uh...no,” said Ed. “That's okay. So, do I get fifty bucks for this or what?”
The green jacket man raised a finger and said “Ah!” before reaching into his inside jacket pocket to retrieve a stack of money.
“It's all there,” said the man. “You can count it if you want.”
Ed grabbed the stack to find it was all ones bound together by an old rubber band.
“These are all ones,” Ed said.
“I know,” said the man. “Now...my package please.”
Ed handed the package to the green jacket man who had his hands outstretched. The man, once in possession of the package, bore a look of absolute rapture.
“Oooooh,” he exhaled. “Come to daddy.” The man then ripped apart the brown paper and opened the box. When he saw what was inside, his eyes grew wide as the empty plates on all those tables.
Ed then had to sneak a peek. Craning his sore neck over, looking inside that box revealed nothing more than some substance that was only lighter in hue than the paper it was wrapped in. It wasn't white, it wasn't green it really wasn't...anything. It looked like a golden colored lump.
“It is always worth the wait,” said the man, seemingly drooling. “Here, you have to get a taste of this!”
“Oh no,” said Ed waving his free hand as the other had that wad of one dollar bills. “It's alright. It's...”
The man then grabbed a butter knife from his table, sliced into the substance, cut a square out of it, grabbed a bread plate and put that square piece on it.
“Wh...what is that?” Ed asked.
“Well can't you see?” implored the man with a wide grin. “It's cornbread.”
“Cornbread?”
“Yes! The finest cornbread in all the land. The sorceress across the street makes only a little each day. I feel as if I am robbing her only giving her fifty dollars for it.”
But, thought Ed. I have the fifty bucks. That kid said I could keep it. This makes no sense. I'm outta here!
“Well, uh...enjoy,” said Ed. He then left the man in the green jacket to enjoy his cornbread. As he was about to exit the seafood restaurant, Ed was met with the three small cholo Canadians as they entered with a fierce vengeance.
“What are you doing in here puto?” exclaimed the main gangster. “Now we got problems.”
“Yeah,” said another, one sporting a thick hair comb mustache. “You're on our turf homes. Prepare for total domination.”
Ed, over it all and just wanting to go home, rolled his eyes and said, “Look guys. I don't want any trouble. I just want to...”
“He just wants to deliver the best damn cornbread there is or ever was.”
From behind the three vatos came a voice. When everyone turned around to see who it was, they were all shocked and surprised to see the boy standing there holding a very large machine gun.
“We run the cornbread game in this town esse,” said the gang leader. “You got no right...”
“I do have a right,” said the boy. “And I have this gun.” He then pointed the large weapon straight at the three very white and very silly Latin Kings knockoffs. This caused the three gangstas to draw their handguns, which were almost as big as they were, from under their belts.
“Oh boy,” uttered Ed.
“I just want to enjoy my cornbread,” screamed the green jacket man, who was now running through the restaurant toward the standoff. “You're tearing this neighborhood apart!” He then produced a gun that looks like it came off of the set of a Bonanza episode. The barrel was very long and it had a six chamber revolver.
That caused one of the gang bangers to fire his gun at green jacket man. Then the boy opened fire. The tiny gangstas ducked and hid behind the white linen, yet totally unused, draped tables and shot back. The green jacket man began to fire his wild west pistol at anything and anybody. It was an all out shoot 'em up massacre in the deserted seafood restaurant over a box of cornbread.
Amongst the hail of bullets, all Ed could do was sigh.
As the war raged on in the restaurant, Ed walked back outside, back onto the heat blistered concrete and stood there, once again, just wanting to go home.
“Maybe I should see if a bus stop is nearby,” he said as the sound of guns blaring behind him in the restaurant, along with the screams of the boy, the green jacket man and those ridiculous pasty homeboys, filled the scorched air like a thousand popping balloons and agitated orangutans.
Just then, a car pulled up right in front of Ed. It was a red convertible, with a bunch of scantily clad girls in the back, a large black guy wearing an ear piece in the passenger seat and Danny Terrio, from TV's Dance Fever, driving.
“Dude,” cried Danny Terrio. “Ed! Where you been man?”
“Uh. I've been here,” said Ed. “Where am I?”
“Where are you? Where are you?” giggled Danny Terrio as he pulled his sunglasses off. You're crazy man. We thought we lost you. Here...get in and lets get back to business.”
The large black guy then opened the door, got out and waited for Ed, who then, with a shrug, got into the car and was soon sitting between him and Danny Terrio.
“Ed. You don't look so good,” mentioned Danny Terrio. “What happened?”
Ed just exhaled deeply and said “Just drive Danny. I've got fifty bucks so lets grab some beer and go to my place.”
Danny Terrio then turned his head to address the lovely ladies in the backseat.
“You girls up for some mud wrestling?” he asked enthusiastically.
The girls all began to holler and shout in approval to which Danny Terrio nodded with a grin and put the car in drive.
Ed, after all he'd been through, finally managed a smile.
The red convertible drove off and out of the neighborhood and was soon gone from sight. The cornbread really was that delicious by the way.
Well, my brief and curious stint as a strip club DJ had mercifully come to an end. Thing is, I still didn't have a job, nor any money, so She-Ra was a bit frustrated with me, and I had only been in Tucson for like a month. First she sees me detoxing then she's witness to my job gettin' woes. Not the best way to start of a lifetime partnership with the girl that was meant to be and only for you.
But, luckily, She-Ra had many connections here in the T-town and early one morning she took me to a place where she said I was guaranteed a job.
It was actually a place that she had worked in before. Well, it was a new location, seeing as there were problems with the last building they were in. I guess the rent was too high or...
“No, I'm going to warn you right now,” said She-Ra as we approached the place she was taking me. “The owners are idiots. The last location we had, remember the big building with the whole Jurassic fresco on the side?”
“Oh yeah,” I said.
“Yeah. They ran it into the ground. Didn't pay bills, or rent and the owner of the building was pissed that we did that mural on his building.”
“Wait,” I interjected. “The owners of the museum weren't even owners of the building?”
She-Ra just shook her head. “Nope.”
“Oh man,” I uttered. “They are idiots. Do...do you think this is a good idea?”
Her head shake turned to a nod. “Yes,” she said. “Even though they are morons, the museum is one of the coolest things going on in Tucson.”
Here's the back story:
A few years ago, after receiving her third degree from U of A, She-Ra was desperate for work. After a few start and stops with her art degree and career, she stumbled upon a curious sign on the side of the road, in the industrial area of Main street. It read “Fossils for sale.” Always having a love for all things dinosaurs, she pulled over and took a look.
Inside of a very large and seemingly empty space, were a few tables set up with fossils and rocks and all sorts of excavated items. Apparently the man that ran it, a tall blonde guy with thick tinted glasses named Sam, was a real estate agent that was a part time digger and science fanatic. He began renting the large building to sell some of the artifacts and fossils he had accrued through the years. They struck up a conversation and immediately She-Ra had an idea.
Essentially she hired herself to Sam and what was soon to be called the T-Rex Museum. Taking a few long tables filled with rocks, bones and dirt, she transformed the space into a full blown children's science museum. She hired all sorts of local artists and science nerds to help her, and the museum, out. Before you knew it, there was a full swinging pendulum, life size dinosaur replicas, a movie theater, fossil digs in an outdoor activity center, dino-games, a summer camp and so on and so forth. She even got in the paper for her efforts and the T-Rex museum was now a full on and viable part of the neighborhood and city and a fun educational mecca to be reckoned with.
It was all fine and dandy for a while, that is until the owners began to get greedy.
At first, when they turned the museum upside down and transformed it into one of the coolest things for families, or anyone else, to do in Tucson, Sam and his wife insisted that they were not in it for profit. Yeah, apparently when the profits actually started to roll in, Sam would show up with a tricked out Hum-V, or a Jeep painted up just like the ones in “Jurassic Park” (but said T-Rex Museum on the side) and spent thousands of dollars to have the side of the building (which they did not own, remember?) to look like a scene from the late cretaceous or jurassic. Which was actually She-Ra's idea and plan but, well....she didn't know Sam wasn't the building's owner too. Oh well.
Then, the bill collectors would arrive at their door. They would call daily to which She-Ra always had to say “I'm sorry, but Sam isn't in today”, even though he was hiding in his office upstairs. Then he started selling his expensive vehicles, paychecks would start to bounce and, before you knew it, they were in massive debt. That's when She-Ra, even though it broke her heart (and still does today), had to throw in the towel and quit.
After getting back on their feet and opening in a new, yet very scaled down, location, the T-Rex Museum reopened and she thought I would be a perfect fit to work and manage the place. Because, she warned me, Sam and his family certainly couldn't.
“So, you've been warned,” She-Ra said as we pulled up in front of the new T-Rex museum, which was in a sort of warehouse next to a brake shop on Drachman street. “But this is right up your alley as far as playing with kids and working for idiots.”
So we walked in, spoke with Sam and he immediately hired me and I was to start training in two days. I was actually pretty stoked. The new, albeit smaller, museum was really cool. The front desk is actually part of the gift shop, which featured all sorts of dinosaur toys, games, books, videos along with science play kits, backyard dig sets and the like. You enter the museum by passing through a universe room which merges into a hallway featuring the stages of early life on Earth. When you turn right, you are met with a long stretch of habitats featuring snakes, spiders, bugs of all shapes and makes, amphibians and so on. After that, you are in the museum.
There were endless tables set up with fossils and artifacts. Magnifying glasses set up so you can see the ammonites up close, huge reliefs of mosasaurs and plesiosaurs, and even a tusk from a mammoth. There were maps and graphs to show you the evolution of life and locations of where most fossils were found and digs took place along the walls among pictures of what the fossils you were looking at looked like millions of years ago when they walked or swam or even flew around. There was a sluice set up where kids could pan for gems and bones. An art area for drawing and making crafts. Handy books set up to further your education and even a movie theater where they showed short films about dinosaurs. Plus there were all sorts of relics from when She-Ra ran the museum. Full scale raptors in a large Jurassic diorama, murals and paintings that she did, workstations and so on. I was really proud of her when I finally got to see all the things she did to make the museum an actually hands on and handsome museum.
It was pretty darn cool and I was excited to get started there.
Training went pretty smooth as I also had She-Ra at home to help me and loads of books and websites to get me familiar with earth science and dinosaurs. I would also be supervising the part time help, which were science nerds still in high school (who Sam paid like 6 bucks an hour) and a cute non-nerd girl named Michelle who didn't really care about all of the dino and science stuff, but was great with the kids and ran the summer school program. I could also wear pretty much whatever I wanted but I opted to buy some brown archeologist-looking shirts to help with the illusion.
The first six or seven months I worked at the T-Rex museum were some of the best times ever. It was during the summer and outside of helping Michelle with the summer school day camp we had set up in the big play room, I did tours for families, large groups, day care centers, outreach programs and the like. It was really fun to do fossil digs in the back, which were several rows of boxes (that She-Ra built) filled with sand and before the kids arrived, I'd fill them all with toy dinosaurs, crocodile teeth, bones and colored rocks. It was pretty low budget but when the kids would uncover an “artifact”, they went nuts. Same went for the fossil sluice, which was a water trench (that She-Ra built) filled with sand and the kids had to literally pan for fossils as water (which you could turn off an on of course) streamed down from a angled chute. It was so much fun.
I literally was getting paid to play all day. This is was the best job ever! It was even made better by a little boy, who was part of an “at risk” youth program, who hugged me after a fun day of learning and playing telling me it was the best time he had ever had. I still get misty when I think of that kid.
(this isn't the kid, but the only shot I could find of the sluice we had)
Things were going great. That is until the, well..I guess you could say the “expected” started to happen.
Around late fall Michelle stopped showing up to work. Sure she was in school, but she wasn't coming in on her weekend shifts. When I asked Sam about her, he just told me that she quit because of all the school work she had. But when Michelle came in to pick up her final paycheck, she told me Sam took her off the schedule because they didn't “need her” anymore.
“What the heck does that mean?” I asked Michelle.
“I don't know,” she said. “But my last few checks have bounced so I bet they just don't have enough money to keep me.”
Oh no, I thought. If they can't afford to keep her, then how could they afford to keep me? I made a few bucks more an hour because I was, essentially, supervisor when Sam wasn't around, which was quite often seeing as he was also a real estate guy. It was either that or he was napping in his office when he was at the museum.
Luckily for me I took heed to She-Ra's early warning and would always drive out to the museum's bank, cash the check then go to my bank and make a deposit. It was kind of a drag every other week, but I didn't want some random paycheck to go bouncing on me.
Then the high school nerds stopped showing up too. Which sucked because I kind of liked those guys. Especially one who was so laid back and so into smoking weed that all he did was crack jokes all day and make me laugh.
Then a curious thing happened. Sam introduced me to some random man. He was middle aged and kind of gruff looking, and told me that he was a volunteer. OK, I said. But he looked sort of, you know...not someone who would want to work in a science museum or should be around kids. But, looks can be deceiving. Maybe this dude is just a dino nerd and wants to get involved with the only kids based science museum in Southern Arizona. I wasn't one to judge.
After working with this guy, who's name was like Jeff or something, I learned that he was an ex-con and doing some work program, part of which is funded by the state. Essentially, the state of Arizona was paying Sam to train this guy and get him rehabilitated. I mean, Jeff was nice enough, and I always had him clean the lizard cages and keep the place tidy, but I would NOT let him do a tour or even play with the kids. There was just something about him that reeked: “He might like playing with the little kids a bit too much”. Ugh. But there was a little extra cash coming in so I guess I had a job for the time being.
But then the job just began to fall apart. There were days when I opened and NO ONE would show up. If Sam stopped by and saw that the register was devoid of any sales, he'd send me packin' for the day. My hours were slowly going down and down and I was looking for another source of income (that'll be the next blog or two). I was getting really frustrated because I really loved the place and my position. But, just like She-Ra had said before, the owners were total morons and were really smart at driving a great business into the ground.
Essentially, my last month or so working for the T-Rex museum involved me opening up, getting everything ready, feeding the bugs and lizards and taking care of the feral cat adoption program that Sam (for whatever weird reason, it did not fit into the theme of the place at all, but I guess it was a sweet notion) which was basically putting food in the various bowls and cleaning up cat poop. Three, maybe four, hours later I'd be sent home. So sad.
She-Ra and I were in Scottsdale for a weekend, visiting friends and her parents, and on our way back to Tucson I called up Sam at the museum to see what my schedule was for the week. When I asked him when I came in next (because at that point the schedule was almost null and void) this is what he said:
“Mark I'm gonna have to get back to you on that one. We are currently several thousand dollars in debt and just can't afford you right now. I'll call when we get back on our feet.”
That was it, I realized. I am officially out of a job. And probably the best job I have had in a long time. When I told She-Ra what Sam said she just looked at me and said, “Yeah. You need to find something else, fast. Because they will never get back on their feet.”
A few days later I went in and picked up my, what would officially be, my last paycheck. Sam looked pretty despondent and embarrassed when I did. He apologized and I told him to just call me if anything changes. I immediately drove out to their bank, cashed that little guy and came home and started job hunting. Again.
It was a total shame though and if that museum had been in the hands of responsible people, I'm sure both She-Ra and myself would still be gainfully employed there. But...it wasn't. And...we aren't. It just goes to show you that you actually have to have smarts and business savvy to follow through on a great idea. And those behind the T-Rex museum most certainly did not.
About a year later, as She-Ra and I are driving along Oracle Rd., we came across a curious sign on a strip mall marquee.
“Dinosaur Gift Shop” it read. Huh, we thought. So we pulled over to see what it was.
It didn't take long for us to recognize a lot of the old stuff from the T-Rex museum. The big T-Rex skull embedded in rock, lots of gems and stones and boxes of crocodile teeth and the original sign that She-Ra had actually made. It was all there, but in a much, much smaller and very hidden location.
And, yes, it was closed.
So, with a shrug and a “Whatever”, we got back in the car and continued on with our lives. Sam and his weird wife (who was some kind of emphatic mystic or whatnot that could read auras and tell you about your love life by tossing sticks and squirrel rectums on a pentangle made of unicorn boogers or something) sure did have a grand idea and employed both She-Ra and myself when other options were nil, but it was just sad to see what could have been a Tucson institution and a sure fire go to place in Southern Arizona just go ker-flush down yon pooper. I'll always have great memories of working there....but I sure did hate cleaning up all that cat crud.
This is a trip we had been planning for over a month. The tickets were purchased. The motel rooms booked. We got the time off of work. Now all we needed was for things to run smoothly.
The plan was to see my alltime favorite metal band High On Fire play up in Flagstaff, which is about 300 miles north of Tucson, on Friday night, October 1st. It was a trip the three of us (She-Ra, good buddy and High On Fire convert Tim and myself) were very much looking forward to. Not only were we jazzed about losing our skulls and necks to the doom infused war metal that High On Fire provides, but to get ourselves into a bit of cooler weather.
Flagstaff rests in a higher elevation and is a little township surrounded by pine trees and always a good 20 if not 30 degrees cooler than Phoenix and Tucson. A good change of scenery would be welcome as well. Lately the three of us have been so immersed in work and various projects that even the quick passing desert landscape from inside of a car felt like a release.
Our plan was this: get to Flagstaff around 4pm, check into our motel, walk around and discover the little hillside city (a place I had never been to and She-Ra only once or twice yet Tim knew quite well so we had a tour guide), grab some dinner then head into the Orpheum Theater, where the bands were playing and rock out. Afterward we'd grab some drinks then head back to the motel and crash. Next day we'd grab some breakfast, walk around another part of the town, drive back home and be back in Tucson by 8 or 9pm. Sounded relatively simple right?
Yeah. Here's what really happened!
I myself got up rather early, as I usually do. Stoked about the trip and show ahead of us, I really couldn't sleep in since my mind was buzzing. So I did all of the packing, made sure the pets had plenty of food and water, laid down newspaper in the hallway in case doggie lays a doody (which, for some reason, is his favorite place to poop if he's left alone too long), cleaned out my trusty cooler (yes, the same one I've had since the early 90s...look, it's tradition and still works kids) and even made snacks. She-Ra, on the other hand, was dead asleep. Now that it's football season, she's been running her behind off to make sure those sports fans, with eyes glued to the huge plasma screens, don't run out of beer or booze. So she's earned the rest. So I figured if we left by noon we'd still be in Flagstaff by dinner.
Tim started texting us around 9am. Well, her...I still don't own a cell phone. He, like me, was super excited to get going. So by around 10:30, She-Ra finally starts stirring and we get the car packed and out of there by 11ish. First we have to stop by the bank to deposit money we're going to be spending in about 4 hours and to Staples where they have to reinstall all of the printer programs they accidentally erased when they cleaned our computer recently. So by the time we grabbed Tim, then some food, we were on the freeway by almost 1pm. OK, so we'd get there by 5. That's fine.
The drive was going fine. Tim told us that he had been up all night, seeing as he had to close the bar, which got him home by 3, and he just stayed up drinking beer and packing, too wound up about our little trip. But he was in good spirits, all of us were, and we joked and laughed the whole time. So far, the trip was off to an amazing start.
Then...something went kaplooie.
About 30 miles south of Phoenix, in a little town called Maricopa, traffic started to get bad. This is pretty typical of Phoenix on a Friday afternoon, but, the thing is, we were still pretty far from the city limit. So what gives? Why were we at a crawl on the highway?
Thing is, at least a crawl was movement. That slow stop and go just turned into a stop.
Here's the thing: We were in the middle of the desert. Like nowheres-ville. It was about 108 degrees and we were on a two lane highway stuck between a massive congestion of cars and trucks. It was blistering and very claustrophobic. The heat was searing down on us and we were on a chugging parking lot in the middle of BF Arizona, at a complete and utter standstill.
“I'm so sorry guys,” She-Ra said mournfully. “If I hadn't slept so long this never would have...”
“Would you stop?” I insisted, as did Tim. “No one could have seen this happen. Let's just relax and try and get through it.”
2pm turned to 3pm. The traffic would move, oh so slightly, now and then, so we had to keep the engine running. Our gas was maybe around a quarter full. If we didn't get out of this mess, we'd be on empty and stuck on the I-10 for good.
“I'm gonna have a smoke and check things out.” Tim then opened the back seat door and got out. He walked along the left shoulder of the highway, heading up to see if he could find out what is causing this mess.
Then, suddenly, we started to move. After an hour of being literally parked on the highway, a break came. A good distance between the cars in front of us and we were beginning to make some ground.
Thing is, Tim was still walking on the shoulder.
We got so far ahead of him that we, unfortunately, had to pull over and wait for him to catch up. Not so good for a guy who's been up all night and smokes. Plus it was crazy hot made hotter by the idling engines from vehicles big and bigger.
“You've got to be kidding me,” She-Ra said ironically laughing.
Soon enough, Tim caught up with us. He even had to stop once because his shoe fell off. Once he was safe and heaving back in the car, we edged our way back onto the highway and...stayed there. It was at a stand still once again.
3pm turned to 4pm. A woman next to us was crying. Some kid got out of a car and puked. People were walking around on the pavement like it was a sidewalk. Some guy even had a magazine out and had his chair leaned back. Yes, it was that long and maddening.
“Let's look on the bright side,” I suggested. “Even if we don't get out of here by 5 we can still make it to Flagstaff by 7. That's when the doors open. We grab some food and drinks and can still be inside the theater by 9. So...we're okay!”
The gas light indicated that we were not so okay.
Tim got out once more to investigate, calling and texting all sorts of people he knew up in Phoenix. Then, I got an idea. I grabbed She-Ra's phone and called my dad, knowing that he'd probably, most likely, be at the computer.
He was. (thanks dad!)
I told him where we were and what was going on and asked if he could just Google things like “Traffic jam. I-10. Phoenix. Westbound. Parking lot.” and things like that. I mean, there were media helicopters circling an area up ahead. There has to be something on the web!
“Okay. I think I found something,” he said. “Looks like a truck, a semi, got into an accident and they closed the highway down to one lane.”
Oh man, I thought. We're going to be here a while.
Then, oddly enough, just as Tim returned to the car, traffic started moving again.
“We're starting to move here dad,” I said. “I'll call you back. And thanks!”
Lo and behold, we were moving at a decent clip. We even got up to 60mph. Was...was it over? Were we out of the dead halt gridlock? Let's hope so.
Up ahead we saw quite the sight. It looked as if a few trucks, not just one, was involved. One of which was in the grassy right shoulder ditch and appeared to have had exploded. It was quite the grizzly scene.
“Oh man!” I shouted. “My camera!”
I always keep a small digital camera on me just in case something like this happens. I retrieved it from my right shorts pocket, turned it on and... We drove right past the charred and gutted 18 wheeler and the dense pile up surrounding it. I had missed the shot that would explain the agony of that traffic jam for this here blog.
At that very moment, Def Leppard's “Photograph” came on the radio. We all had to laugh about it and I shook my fist at the heavens, in both spite and admiration.
http://ktar.com/category/local-news-articles/20101001/Truck-fire-closes-westbound-I~10-near-Maricopa/ (cut and paste this so you can see and read about the severity of that traffic jam...sorry, this blogspot doesn't do links)
The rest of the drive was rather uneventful, and we totally welcomed that. Our spirits were up once we hit that incline towards Flagstaff. The air was getting cooler and the sky a little darker. Pine trees could be seen (which is a rarity for Southern AZ folk but for a guy that grew up around them in Carmel and Pacific Grove, it was a sight for weary eyes) and once we hit the pinnacle of the hill, we began our decent down into the sprawling basin that would be our destination.
As we careened down the highway, the car started to do a curious action. The whole rig began to shake a bit. No, actually, it began to shake a LOT. It felt as if we were driving over a bumpy road, one with rolling ditches and curves. I thought nothing of it. They have roads like this back in California, I'm pretty sure on the LA Grapevine, to help with skidding out and tension on the brakes. Still, the whole front end felt as if it was gonna rattle apart.
Everything was cool. Vibratory, but cool. That is until I saw the expression on She-Ra's face. She looked quite tense and rather concerned.
“Are you okay?” I had to ask.
“Um...yeah,” she eventually muttered. “It's just that...well...”
I was immediately intrigued. “Well...what?”
After a terse pause while trying to steer down the sloping grade under the duress of the manic shaking, She-Ra finally said, “I just wish I had bought that part for the car that my mechanic said I should get.”
I'm sorry...huh? A part for the car your mechanic ADVISED you to get? You mean the front end is shaking like that because it's...COMING LOOSE? Are you kidding me right now?
“No, no...everything should be alright,” She-Ra stated, a bit unconvincing. “We'll...we'll be fine.”
Now, if you know me you know I can be quite the hypochondriac. Mind you, this was not a medical mishap, but it was the same thing rolling through my head. The only image I kept spinning through my brain was something out of an old cartoon or Keystone Cops film. Like the whole car just flying apart, wheels shooting off in every direction, and the body just collapsing on the pavement and us skidding to a grinding halt down at the base of the winding highway. After spending most of the afternoon parked on the I-10, the last thing I wanted was the car to go to pieces and us soar off of the hill and down into the valley below. And let me tell you, that was quite a perilous drop.
So, to say the least, I was tense once again.
All that tension went away once we actually hit the straightaway into Flagstaff. We rolled the windows down and let the cool 60mph air hit our faces. There was a controlled burn going on up ahead and the valley was engulfed in an inviting piney campfire smell, one that totally reminded me of my hometown. We all breathed a little easier. Everything was going to be alright.
By 7pm, just 3 hours behind schedule, we hit the city limits. Flagstaff itself is a rather small town. Our motel was just a block away from the venue, which was located downtown, and the downtown area was really just a few blocks radius of shop, bars and restaurants. Again, I was totally reminded of Carmel and Pacific Grove. It was pretty cool.
A nice Indian man ran the front desk and the lobby smelled of fresh curry.
“Yep, this is where I stayed last time,” Tim said looking and smelling around. “There's no denying that curry scent. Now I'm hungry.”
We checked in with no problem (thank you Jeebus!) and went to our rooms. Tim was downstairs in a single smoking room and we were upstairs, rather hidden from sight, in a cozy room with a huge California King bed. The room, despite the cheap price, was actually quite nice. I was impressed.
Before we got settled in and changed for the evening, Tim came up and we had to have a beer. Luckily, when we stopped for gas, we picked up a 12 pack, a couple of tallies and some ice. So when we got to the motel, the beer was ice cold and that first long desperate chug from that PBR can tasted, not only like victory, but the lips of the angel of mercy.
Amen.
Tim then went down to his room to change and all She-Ra and I could muster was more beer and some dumb TV. We just needed a mind brake from the driving catastrophes that we were just witness and a part of.
“I can't believe we made it here in one piece,” I said.
“And right on time,” She-Ra added.
“I know. I am so ready to see High On Fire. I have some serious headbanging to do. I think we've all earned a night of going nuts.”
After a while Tim joined us back in our room. We all had one more beer before heading out. When we got outside I was happy to find that the weather was cool enough for me to wear my hoodie. Ah, I missed you ol' buddy. It felt good to have that cozy brushed cotton from my Thrasher hoodie on my arms once again.
When we rounded the corner to head towards downtown, we saw that the Orpheum Theater was in fact right there, just a half a block from our motel. The lights were on, the marquee was lit (and my heart skipped a beat when I saw 'Tonight: HIGH ON FIRE') so I figured why not grab our tickets now, just to have them, before finding a place to grab some food.
Then, when we walked up to the ticket window, this is what we saw:
That's right. Canceled. The fxxking show we drove 300 miles to see, endured a two hour traffic jam, almost broke the car coming into town and preparing for at least a month has been canceled. You have got to be freaking kidding me!
I was stunned. Both She-Ra and and Tim were shocked as well, but laughing in spite of it. I mean, they just had to. For me, I went through a slew of emotional options. Should I be enraged and just lash out? No, that's lame. Should I sit on the sidewalk and weep? Um, nope...that's out. What about fuzing my brain cells and stand there in a comatose shock and later be wheeled away in a straight jacket? Hmm, that could work, but...no. So, with my mouth slightly agape, I walked up to the window, silently handed the ticket guy my confirmation code to which he immediately credited back the fifty some odd dollars to my credit card.
“But...but why?” I finally sputtered.
“Their bus broke down about 100 miles from here,” he said through that opening in the plexi-glass window. “Just outside of Winslow.”
“We just drove from there ourselves!” screeched a rather normal looking woman who was standing next to a quite average looking guy. Were these two middle aged parents here to see High On Fire? Awesome. “We could have picked them up!”
Then, amongst other folks being let down and She-Ra and Tim saying how sorry they were about everything to me...something snapped. In spite of all the trauma, I suddenly came to.
“You know what?” I beamed. “Screw it! We're here, it's a beautiful night out, our motel is a block away. Let's set this town on fire!”
With that, the team all roared in approval and we set off for the first decent looking bar that served food.
We found this Irish pub with outdoor seating, so we saddled up and ordered a round from our very young and rather blonde server. The drinks came out pretty fast and when we ordered our food we figured it would be speedy as well.
“So I got the address of that place the opening bands are playing,” Tim said. “Let's go check that out after we eat.”
On the door of the Orpheum, there was a hand written and drawn “flyer” for the two opening bands, Torche and Kylesa, who obviously made it to Flagstaff without incident, who were kind enough to play a smaller venue. Torche is pretty good, but I loved Kylesa. So I was stoked that they were still playing. Even if I get a little bit of headbanging in and some thudding heaviness into my ears I'd be fine.
After about a half hour, our hot wings haven't even arrived.
“It takes like 5 minutes to cook those things,” mentioned She-Ra. “What the hell?”
It was then that the blonde server came out and had an apologetic look on her face.
“Guys, I'm sorry,” she began. “The kitchen lost your ticket. So, they're on it now but...sorry for the inconvenience.”
We just started laughing, even as she didn't get it and continued with her “sorrys”.
“Baby, you don't even know,” I said. “This just fits in perfectly with the day. Of course they lost our ticket! It just had to be.”
When she went inside looking confused, She-Ra immediately sprung up from her seat and went inside. Tim and I thought she was going to cause havoc on the wait and management staff. She can do that at times seeing as she, and we as well, were all restaurant industry. When she returned, her hands were loaded with big shot glasses filled with dark elixir.
“So, I told the bartender our story and, yeah... These are on the house.”
We downed those mofos like it was our job. Ordered another round. Our food came out promptly and we stuffed our faces. Afterward, a bit buzzing and full (She-Ra ordered the sausage plate while Tim and I had cheese steaks, which were quite lovely thanks) we decided to head out and try and find this new venue where the two opening bands were playing.
Tim knew Flagstaff pretty well so we were following him. We walked down a few blocks, turned left and went under a bridge, turned right and soon we were in a residential neighborhood.
“Flagstaff is kind of a hippie town,” I said. To me, the hamlet reeked of small town Northern California lazy. There were lots of bedraggled kids walking dogs, lanky guys in ironic hats playing guitars on street corners, old guys balding with ponytails brandishing tie-dye shirts meandered the byways and the houses looked like the seaport creaks occupied by ex surfers and pottery artists. It was nice, but...I had been there/done that too many times. I like Tucson. We repped the dirty dirty like no ones bizz-nezz. Our city is rough and weird and it's toughened me up something fierce, a rough necessity that I desperately needed. If I lived in Flagstaff I'd just go back to my NorCal shuffle and be calmly “okay” with it all. In Tucson, you have to fight. And I totally love that!
Eventually we found the “venue”, or at least the address the flyer said the bands would be playing. We heard some sludge metal but...is this somebody's home? Are Torche and Kylesa playing a house party? Are you kidding me?
So we walked up the pathway to find a decent amount of people standing about, smoking, chatting and holding red cups in their hands. Okay, well, if they serve beer than I'm fine with those guys jamming a house party. But after that long walk, I, along with She-Ra and Tim, desperately needed a drink.
When I opened the front door, we were immediately hit with the stench of dense sweaty dudes and the heat that billowed off of them. The place was packed and the strains of Torche-heaviness emanated from, what looked like, the kitchen. It was loud and gross and She-Ra had nothing to do with it. She immediately turned around and told us she'd meet us later.
I mean, Kylesa had their merch set up on the living room couch. And trying to maneuver around the place was almost an impossibility. I mean, I really wanted to hear some metal but not so much under this kind of swampy duress.
So I asked the guy at the Kylesa merch “stand” where the beer was.
“Huh?” he said. “Oh they're not serving beer. I don't think.”
No beer? Hmm.
“Goodbye!” I cried. With that, Tim and I quickly turned our heels, lit out for the cool air and sweet smells of the outside to find She-Ra sitting on the rocky wall fence.
“Let's get out of here,” I said. “the first bar we see, we're there!”
So back to walking we went. Back under the bridge and back onto the main street where we found some dopey looking joint called Granny's Closet.
We walked inside and were amused to find that it was karaoke night. Some thick girl in a sweater jacket was belting out Led Zeppelin's “Stairway to Heaven”. Whatever. We ordered a well needed round of drinks, sucked them down and continued on our journey.
The next place we hit was a local brewhouse that also featured about a hundred different Scotchs. They had a featured Scotch and Tim and I just had to try it. It was almost like drinking Mescal it was so light and peety. Our heady buzz was coming back but we pillaged on in search of further damage.
Luckily, Tim knew of a speakeasy piano bar that served Absinthe. That was EXACTLY what I needed. At this rate, I just wanted to get out of my head and have some major fun. Which I was. So we turned down a side street to find the slightly hidden Absinthe bar.
The place was awesome. It was dark, sparsely populated and had that polished yet organic look of a real bar. So we bellied up to the bar and ordered our Absinthe.
There was a guy playing an upright piano behind us and against the wall. I grabbed a $5 bill and walked up to him. I told him our tale and dropped the bill into his large brandy snifter.
“Look,” I said, almost pleading. “If you could play any Vince Guaraldi from 'Charlie Brown Christmas', that would be the best thing ever.”
Thankfully the piano guy, a sort of twitchy middle aged dude in thick glasses, loved Guaraldi and said that he would after his cigarette break. So I sat down, sipped my ethereal drink and began to relax.
“You know guys,” I said. “I'm actually glad High On Fire canceled. I think this night had to happen. I'm having a great time and cheers to the strangest day ever!”
With that we clinked our glasses filled with the greenish hued potion and drank. Thats when piano guy returned and sat down at his paycheck.
The first thing I heard when he began playing was that infamous lick of “Linus and Lucy” which is probably the most recognizable riff from Guaraldi.
He then broke into 'Skating' which just sent me over the moon. I mean, what piano player plays frikkin' 'Skating' from “A Charlie Brown Christmas”? This was the best thing I've heard, and have been a part of, in a long time.
Then the nail hit the coffin. The piano guy broke into “Christmastime Is Here” and for my “Arrested Development” fans out there (the brilliant and short lived TV show, not the rootsy hip hop band) is the 'sad walking away' George Michael music.
That was it. After the long and arduous day, the set backs, the let down but at the same time the amazing togetherness we were all having, I found myself tearing up and wiping my eyes at the bar. I couldn't help it. Everything at that moment, the day, my friend, my She-Ra, the Absinthe and now music from my favorite holiday special, just took hold. Tim totally understood and She-Ra put her arms around me. I wasn't weeping uncontrollably, just gentle tears of appreciation and childhood memories. Don't tell me you haven't teared up at your local Absinthe bar when the piano guy starts playing the tunes from “A Charlie Brown Christmas”. Because I know you have...
After that emotional take, it was good to get back outside into the increasingly (or is it “de”creasingly) colder air. A nice jaunt around the few blocks of downtown, which was beginning to fill up with kids of all shapes and ages, was well needed. But so was another drink. Most likely our last one.
We wound up at a place called the Monte Cristo and headed upstairs to the bar area. It was actually a pretty neat little saloon, with a big old timey mirror liquor shelf behind the large decorative oak bar. We all grabbed drinks and headed outside to the balcony patio.
It was here that I knew the day was coming to a close for me. I was lit up pretty well, spent beyond belief and took in the view with deep breaths and a wide smile.
“Thanks guys,” I said to She-Ra and Tim. “This has been one of the funniest and most interesting days I can recall. And I'm glad I did it with you two.”
We then clinked our glasses or...cans or...whatever (I kind of can't remember what we ordered) and had one last hurrah before turning in.
Back at the motel, She-Ra stayed up and watched “Sin City” to which I so did not. The last thing I remember seeing before the lids came slamming down, was Mickey Rourke's misshapen and bandaged face talking tough about something. I slept too hard to dream.
The next day, after showering, packing up, cleaning and checking out, the three of us hit an all you can eat Mandarin Chinese buffet. Actually, Tim insisted on it. I kind of wanted an omelet or a cheeseburger and She-Ra wasn't really in the mood to eat just yet because it was so early.
It was 11am.
We were the first to arrive so the food was fresh and piled high. I loaded up on some basics like grilled chicken and a salad and avoided what looked like “bloody bananas”.
I even had to try their pizza because, well, I really didn't know Chinese cuisine included pizza. After that first and only bite, I know knew that it didn't.
As the food soaked up the previous night's antics and abuse, we all waddled back to the car and tried to decide what to do next.
“Well, we're here,” I suggested, “so maybe a stroll around another part of town? I don't know...”
“I have an idea,” said She-Ra as she turned the ignition on. We then drove into a gas station, filled the car up, grabbed some bottles of water and drove off.
“Where are we going?” I had to ask. She-Ra just held a naughty grin and said nothing.
“Are you trying to tell me that we're going home?”
My question was met with a slight nod and that sent me into a wild laughing fit. I mean, at that point, it felt as if all we did was drive 300 miles to get drunk. We had been in Flagstaff for just over 16 hours, after sitting in mind numbing traffic, thinking the car was going to collapse and having our concert canceled. Amazing, I thought. Through my laughter, I just had to admit that this was the best road trip ever.
The drive back was anything but eventful. Smooth sailing all the way. Tim slept most of the trip as he was stretched out, using my cooler as a pillow, in the back. She-Ra and I said maybe a dozen words the whole journey back. We basically let NPR do all of the talking. We really had nothing to say at that point and for at least 4 hours. Words just failed to come as the day before did all of the talking.
Then, just as we hit the limits to our fair and ferocious city, we drove right into a huge storm. Heavy rain fell, winds were rocking the Impala and tumbleweeds the size of Yugos were rolling across the freeway. It was quite a spectacle and we were all glad that fall had finally arrived to our endless summer soaked Tucson. Even if it did almost push us off the road once or twice.
After we dropped Tim off, who staggered back to his apartment, we went home to a very anxious dog. As She-Ra took him for a long and well needed walk, I unpacked and put things away. When she returned, we both looked at one another with “well, what now?” eyes.
“You wanna hit Nancy's?”
Nancy's Fort Lowell Pub is our local dive bar, just a few blocks away and basically our home away from home. I was spent, hungover, whirling and just wanted to relax.
“Yes,” was my answer. So we went down to the pub, had a couple of drinks, told our tale to the bartender and a few regulars then headed home. After some dinner and another cocktail, that was it for me. I was out by 9:30pm and She-Ra followed (which was great because we both had to be at work by 8:30am since the restaurant opens at 10 because of football on Sundays). Somewhere in my dreamspace I'm sure I was in some happy bunny picnic, rollicking and frolicking with all my friends as High On Fire played live on the stage next to our picnic.
In essence, that day, October 1st 2010, will live on in memory. If High On Fire would have not canceled, the day would have gone a bit too smooth. Sure the traffic jam and the car problems was one thing, but to have the main component of your journey just not be there? Now that is something to giggle about and treasure forever. It was a day that should not have been but I'm sure glad it was.
Oh, and the radio must have played Katy Perry's “California Gurls” at least a dozen times as we were driving.
I just drove almost 15 hours, about 900 miles, to be with the girl I had fallen in love with. Originally she said that she would move to San Francisco to be with me. But after finding out that she paid only $500 for a garden townhouse, while I was stuck in an ex-girlfriend's dingy apartment, along with a trail of failed relationships, countless jobs, the loss of three cars, a bad drug habit and not much to show for the twelve years that I had lived there, I quickly decided it was time for a change. A big one.
Now, you have to understand, I've only been through (not even really in) Tucson twice in my life. Once as a kid with my mom and once on my way to Austin for SXSW. To me, Tucson was a dusty Arizona border town with outlaws and cowboys and banditos and stuff like that. The weeks proceeding my big move, I did a lot of research on the internet about the town. Or city really.
First off, it had like a population of a million, where my fair hamlet of San Francisco had maybe a few hundred thousand. I mean it was also three times the size of SF so, there you go. It had a major university, U of A, and what seemed like a thriving art community. There all sorts of fun things to do in Tucson. Who knew? Not me. So I was actually getting pretty excited about the move, outside of being with She-Ra of course.
Luckily I had a little bit of cash saved up. Not much though. Essentially that last month in SF I was basically unemployed. My boss at the bar hated me and I hated him. So when word got out that I might be moving to Tucson, he just plain took me off the schedule. I mean, it was something like “Well, maybe I'll just move to Arizona to be with that girl. I don't know,” or whatever to a co-worker right after I met She-Ra, which was something I was not considering at all. But then when I got “fired” and realized that she paid next to nothing for a garden townhome, I quickly changed my mind and made the decision to finally move out of California.
So, outside of not having a paycheck or tips coming in, I had to pay an extra month's rent (because I moved out early and without much notice), pay for the rental car, gas, food, etc, so when I arrived in Tucson I had like a few hundred bucks. Good thing Tucson has cheap eats and cheap beer, otherwise I would have been screwed.
Now, I've lived with girls before, but it was nothing like this. I had left my home state and everything behind in it to be with She-Ra. It was official. Things would have to work out between us or I'd be back on some Greyhound bus and sleep on my dad's floor at their place in Palm Springs. Good thing we actually got to know one another over the phone and email (along with her week long visit, which sealed the deal) so I was pretty confident about it working out.
Which, it did.
Her place was pretty small but it was awesome. The house has a decent sized garden that rests in between the living room and bedroom and a huge desert tree growing in the center of it. She also had a cat, Alice, which was fine because I've been a cat owner before. But, she also had a dog, which is something I had very little experience with. His name is Deacon (yes named after Brad Doriff's character in 'Blade'...so nerdy) and he is a beautiful Siberian husky, with reddish coloring and slate blue eyes. Only thing is, much like other pretty male models, he's kinda dumb and privy to escaping and getting lost. So there were moments when She-Ra and I were having, um, “fun” and he thought that we were fighting so instead of defending her he'd just move the gate a bit and take off. I cant tell you how many times we went looking for him in our jammers.
After being in Tucson for a bit while looking for work (which was tough because I really didn't want to bartend or serve again but this place is pretty much a service industry city) I started to get sick. I broke out in cold sweats and would shiver a lot, even though it was warm outside. So to help with my illness I started to watch She-Ra's “Sex and the City” DVDs to pass the time while I was on her couch. Turns out I really got into it, but I was still curious about my odd flu.
“You're detoxing,” She-Ra said. “I saw that bag of blow back at your apartment. You obviously had a serious problem and now its coming out. Just take it easy till you feel better.”
Detoxing? Me? But I... But... But...
Oh man, it was true. I did have quite the cocaine dependency back in San Francisco. It was EVERYWHERE! The bar where I worked, the club where I DJ'd, the radio station, friends had it, girls did it. Not to mention I was totally depressed and really confused about what I was doing back in SF. So, bingo!, that first night I did it I knew I was hooked. A year later I'm on She-Ra's couch shaking and nauseous. Good thing I had Carrie, Samantha, Charlotte and Miranda to guide me through it. By the time the last episode was finishing up, when Bigs texted Carrie and it read John (yes, I wept...shut up I was in a vulnerable state) I was pretty much over the detoxing. It was then and there I decided that drugs were just not for me. I freaked out on extacy, I hated the way weed made me just tired, hungry and paranoid, I was terrified to do acid (hey, I already hallucinate on my own and the voices in my head would be deafening) and I obviously like the stimulants a bit too much. I'll just stick to drinking. It's legal, I'm good at it and Tucson was definitely a beer and whiskey town.
Once that was taken care of, it was time to look for a job. Now, here was my problem at the time. I sort of had that big fish/little pond attitude thing going on. I mean, hey, I'm from California man. I grew up in LA. I lived in San Francisco where I was a music journalist and DJ. I've done all kind of cool stuff. What am I saying here? I am the cool stuff. I'm gonna take Tucson by storm!
Yeah, no. Didn't happen.
I sent resumes to every decent rock radio station, to the local newspapers, the weekly free alternative press, even some local theaters and TV stations. Nothing. I managed to land an audition at a regional theater, the Beowulf, but I hadn't acted in years and had nothing prepared. A radio station, which was located way out in the boonies, offered me like $7 an hour to switch music from 2am to 8am. That wouldn't work. Nothing seemed to be panning out. I was getting pretty desperate.
Then, She-Ra made an odd but understandable suggestion.
“Why don't you try some of the local strip clubs,” she asked. “It's probably the only way you can get paid as a DJ here and I think Curves is hiring.”
Me? A strip club DJ? Are you kidding? I HATE strip clubs. My history with those things are not the best. I'm not good at just sitting there and letting some hot girl with big boobs writhe on my pants. When the mojo kicks in, I have to do something about it. One time I ran screaming from a high end “gentleman's club” after some friends bought me a private room dance with this one dancer that had boobs the size of bowling balls. When she unlatched her top and those things popped out, my body turned into a mercury thermometer that exploded from the heat and I had to get out. I ran all the way down Broadway, up Columbus, back into the apartment at Union and jumped into the shower. So there was no way I could work around that.
But, I was broke and hating living off She-Ra, who was a bartender at a popular bar restaurant just a few blocks up from our place. So I applied at the club, got an interview and started training the next night.
Curves is a fairly upscale strip club and luckily from the DJ booth you really cant see that much. The dancers just look like silhouettes and you're so far back and behind a tinted window that really it kind of just resembled a dance club. But...with scantily clad girls walking around and into the DJ booth. Which, I was okay with.
See, you have to understand where She-Ra was coming from with suggesting that I DJ at Curves. She knew I wasn't “into” the whole strip club thing and our relationship was so strong, even though it was fairly new, that really she just wanted me to make some money at some skills I have and keep looking for work as I get paid. I didn't want to do it. I just...kinda had to. It was my only option at the time.
When I arrived at Curves on a slow night, I was taken into the DJ booth by the club's manager, some slick Latino looking guy who probably listened to a lot of techno music and had spinning rims on his flashy car. The DJ I was training under seemed relieved when he met me. He was a tall, thin, young looking guy with a fedora hat and a shiny shirt with a skinny black tie. “Dude I hope it works out with you,” he said over the loud booming bump-bump music. “I've been pulling like ten, maybe twelve hour shifts with only like one day off. We need you here man.”
That first night I just observed, helped him get CDs from their massive, and quite dusty, shelves, took requests from some dancers and stuff like that. It was actually kind of fun. Weird, but something that I could possibly do and get some good stories out of while I look for more, uh, suitable and less skeezy work.
The second night though, I knew I had made a mistake. Maybe I hadn't noticed it before but some of the dancers were handing fedora hatted DJ dude little bags of white powder. I began to sweat when I saw this and knew it would be almost impossible for me to resist if I was on my 7th hour DJing and needed a little “pick me up” to keep going. I mean, I just detoxed and got over the drug, I did NOT want to get back into that routine again.
“OK tonight,” the DJ said, “I want to see how you do on the mic. I'm gonna have you introduce the upcoming dancers, alright?”
Oh no, I thought. Here it is. I have to play the role of cheesy strip club DJ guy. I have to use that dumb overly anxious salesman type voice. But, I've done theater before, so I just looked at it like it was a role or something.
So after the last song played and some girls got off the main stage, I went up to the mic and spoke into it.
“Alright guys, give it up for Sinnamon! She's going into the VIP lounge so get those dollars out and make her...”
Then, I broke out laughing. When I heard my voice boom over the club in that ridiculous strip club DJ voice, I couldn't take it. I doubled over and fedora hat guy had to finish. When he was done, he just looked at me sternly.
“What was that?” he asked.
“I don't know,” I said, still giggling. “But...I have to go.”
I walked out of the club, out to the car, started it up and went home.
When I walked in, She-Ra glanced at me curiously.
“You're back early,” she said. “I thought you had to be there till eight.”
Well, the laughing I had done earlier immediately turned to tears. I told her I just couldn't do it, told her about the bags of blow, the breaking down and the whole thing making me queasy. She was disappointed but understood.
“Well, I know a place where you can get a job,” she said with a sigh. “I'll take you there tomorrow.”
And that would lead me to a new adventure on it's own!
